


Hannah

by QueenCherry01



Series: Far Cry 5 [1]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15072902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCherry01/pseuds/QueenCherry01





	1. Chapter 1

My mother is always angry.

She was angry when she married my father. Angry when she got pregnant. Angry that she gave birth to a daughter instead of a son. Angry that when my father died, he had left her nothing in the will. Angry when she found out that I was gay. She wouldn’t hit me when my father was alive, but now he was dead and buried in the ground, she could go ballistic with her fury.

She would use her fists to punch me, using belts to whip me with. She left so many scars after a ‘session’, which she took such pride in seeing. She was smart enough to no time let anyone else see the abuse; not letting me leave the house or anyone inside the house aside for her. She forced me to wear tank tops and shorts to see to scars - to have control over them and me. I couldn’t run away - I was a 20-year-old who knew nobody and had nowhere to go. I couldn’t wait for the bitch to die either - she seemed like the type to live on forever. So, the only choice I had was to die. But even then, I couldn’t die quickly and painlessly. No, I had to die slow and agonizingly as possible.

 

 

 

My hands gripped the porcelain sink, hazel eyes staring directly at the reflection of myself in the mirror. My nose was black and blue - recently bruised and possibly broken. Even my eyes weren’t spared - only just healing from the bruising - the colours yellow and green painted around them. Blood slowly dripped down from the cut on my forehead and nose, staining the sink crimson. The blood was the only thing that brought colour in the otherwise sterile, white bathroom.

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

Her words rang in my mind. She spent nearly all day cleaning the house, almost obsessively. The other times she would either beat me or watched over me. Every single day I’m forced to spend most of the day outside in the garden, tending to all my mother many plants and flowers. She watches from the porch, always glaring. However lately, she’s been keeping me inside, all day in this small, suffocating house, with no explanation.

“Get down here Hannah, now.” My mother shouts, her voice echoing around the thin walls. Reluctantly, I clean the cut on my forehead and whip the blood from my nose, leaving the bathroom. She’s in the kitchen, leaning over the sink. I stare at her back, her muscular arms tensed. She’s never been beautiful - she has always looked sick, tired and old.

She turned around, furry settled on her face like a second skin. Her eyes - a dull blue - are wide and animal-like, a bull seeing red.

“What the fuck is this?”

She moves from the sink and I’m presented with the view of dirty plates and cups still left in the sink, unwashed.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My hands tremble and I couldn’t form words. My eyes only stare at the sink, barely able to see my mother walking up to me.

“Can’t even clean up properly, can you?”

She’s now in front of me, her fists clenched. “Fucking dirty bitch.”

Her fist comes up and then there’s an exploding pain in the left side of my face. The next hit sends me tumbling down onto the tiled floor. I lay there as my mother rains blow after blows on my body.

“Fucking pig,”

Another punch. “

Fucking useless bitch.”

 A kick.

 “Should of fucking killed you when you were born, dumb bitch.”

She pants as she unbuckles her belt, wrapping in her hand before starting to whip me. My battered arms raise to cover my head and face. As tears run down my face, my mother laughs and pants, loud and hysterically.

“You fucking deserve this, you little shit.”

I want to scream, shout - do something other than cry. But trying to do something would make it worse. The scar on my collar bone proves that much.

“Fuck you,” I think. “Fuck You. I hope you fucking die, you are fucking shit.”

 

 

There was the muffled sound of cars outside, but my mother doesn’t stop beating and whipping me. She pays no attention and just continues.

“She’s going to kill me.” My thoughts say, as my vision starts to fade and blur, spots dancing.

The doorbell rings, but it goes unanswered. It continues - my mother’s beating and the doorbell ringing. I can barely see, my limbs sore and heavy.

The sound of the door being forced opened brings my mother out of her beating daze, and as she looks to where the door, her expression changes. For the first time in my life, I see fear.

 There’s still that anger, that rage but she looks afraid.

 Men with long beards charge in, carrying guns and books that resemble a white bible. They crowded around us, my mother screaming and shouting at them to get the hell out of her house. There are four people— three men and a woman - not dressed like the bearded men, rather dressed like normal people. They stare at me at the floor, the blood and bruises painted onto my skin. My mother screams again before a bearded man rams his gun at her head.

 She falls to the floor, blood coating her head. Her hand reaches up and examines the wound, somehow still angrily muttering. I couldn’t hear anymore, a distancing ringing instead reaching my hearing.

They grab my mother, hoisting her up and out of the house, and I’m suddenly picked up bridal style. My head and vision swim even more, and blackness invades my vision before I close my eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was setting when I wake up. Dispute the curtains being shut, the sun still shined through them, blinding my aching eyes. When I try to move my arm - bandaged in pure white - I could barely lift it an inch to block the sun. Moving anything, even an inch, seemed to cause agonizing pain. I grit my teeth and try again to move. I've barely risen before somebody comes rushing over - a woman in a white dress, with white flowers in her hair - gently pushing me back into the bed. Around me, the room sways and waves around; my head starts to ache and there’s the feeling of nausea. Letting the women lay back down, I close my eyes and start to drift back into a slumber. Hands weave through my hair and skilfully massager my scalp.

“You’re safe here, now.”

 

 Next time I wake up, there is less agonizing pain but more of a soreness. I hear before I see - furious shouting and screaming, along with the sound of stomping feet. I open my eyes, to thankfully find less brightness and another woman beside me, though not dressed in white. Instead, she wears a mayonnaise coloured jumper, with a strange black cross painted on it. She gaps upon seeing my eyes opening and runs to the door, opening and shutting it with such speed. I’m left all alone, without so much of a guess why.

 Careful I lift myself from the bed, winching, and stand. The room its self is small but cozy, with wooden flooring and whitewashed walls. Beside the bed is a chair and bedside table, the only furniture in the room. There are photos on the wall, depicting a range of people, all posing in different poses for the camera. However, there were more photos of the same people, three men, and one woman. They all pose in a God or angle like stature - arms spread out wide as if to say, ‘Come and I shall guide you’.

 

While staring at the photos, I don’t notice the door open again, nor when people start to enter. It’s only when there’s a cough, and I turn around when I see them. The same people from the photos. A man with yellow glasses and a rosary wrapped around his hand, a man with tattooed arms and blue eyes, another man with red hair and dog tags and finally a woman in a white dress.

We all stand and stare, not saying a word. It’s only when the before woman walks in, that’s when there is that familiar voice.

“Hannah? What the fuck.”

It’s my mother, along with the women in the mayonnaise jumper. Her face is black and blue, with blood running from her nose. Her eyes are a sickly milky white - almost like she is blind. Reaching out, she graves nothing but thin air in what seems to be an attempt to find me. Possibly beat me. After all, she was hit with a gun and taken.

“Where are you brat, tell me!” She screams out, spit spraying from her mouth. The red-haired man nods at the women, and the women knocks her gun over my mother, making her slump to the ground. They look at me again - for my reaction.

“Do you want her dead?” the red-haired man asks.

Can I even answer? This woman, this demon, that beaten me, mocked me, threatened me for all my life. Do I want her dead? Do I want her to suffer for real?

When I try to answer, all that comes out is a cough and a grunt, my throat dry and irritable.

“Emma,” the man with yellow glasses speaks. “Please tend to our guest. Make sure she has enough food and water, please my child.”

The mayonnaise women smiles. “Yes, Father. Come with me, child.”

And with that I’m leaded out of the room, leaving behind my mother to a fate unknown. As we turn around a corner in the hallway, I hear the door lock and muffled swearing and screaming.

“Good,” I think. “Let the bitch suffer.”

 

 

The meal I’m given is nothing more than some soup, bread and butter and (thankfully) a cup of ice-cold water. While I eat, Emma speaks about where we are, who the people are around us and all about the Father and his Heralds. She seems the fondest of Jacob - the Herald of the Whitetail mountains.

“There he trains the followers of Eden Gates,” Emma says.  

“He makes people into better versions of themselves, to sacrifice the worst and weakest parts of themselves.”

“Who’s the women?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s Faith, the Herald of the Henbane River. She helps those who have lost their way. She is a good soul.” Emma sighed dreamily, eyes tearing up.

“She’s very pretty.” I mumbled, glancing around the room.

More people started to arrive into the room, all whispering excitedly to each other. Finishing my drink, I watch the people sit down around me and Emma, everyone holding hands or either hugging each other. They all seem to be watching me and Emma, eyes wide and glittering with tears. It’s quiet and unnerving, all of them just staring.

Suddenly, the Heralds walk inside the room, including the Father. Faith dances as she walks, light and graceful. As she passes me, I hear her hum, her voice like a siren, intoxicating. Like I’m drowning in it.

They all stand in the center of the room, all staring and smiling. All but Jacob. He stands to the side, frowning and fidgety. He looks like he would rather be somewhere else but here.

“My children,” the Father announces, his arms wide, looking alike to Jesus welcoming his flock of followers. “Today we welcome a new child into our flock.”

 His eyes travel to me, Emma’s hand reaching out to hold my own in what seems to be a comforting grip if her hand wasn’t sweetly and tight.

“Lead astray from faith by her own family, she has found her way back, and will be welcomed into our family.”

He walked up to me, kneeling down and resting a hand on my neck, our foreheads touching in a weird embrace.

“You are safe here child,” the Father says, eyes closed. Mine close without so much of a thought.

“My sister, Faith, will take care of you. But only if you have faith.”

He leans back and Faith - the women with flowers on her hair - holds my face in her soft hands, gently. I feel like a treasure being discovered.

“You’re safe with me,” she smiles and giggles. “Welcome home.”


	3. Chapter 3

Emma says we’re to walk the Path. She escorts me in the evening to a number of white-painted trucks, some filled to the brim. I must have got lucky – I’m seated in an empty truck, only me and the drivers. The others are filled to the top, some of the people inside are sat on each other’s laps, all swished in together. 

The first night, we spend in handmade wooden huts. We sleep in bunk beds with white blankets and pillows. A woman above me cries, the bed above creaking as she tosses and turns, louder than the others crying. At some point, someone from the other bunk beds tells her to shut up. She does so, only sniffing every once in a while. 

I run the tips of my fingers over the blankets, burrowing deeper into them. The wind coming through the open window makes the curtains flutter, the only noise aside from the sniffing.

What’s going to happen to my mother?

I toss onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut. 

Is she going to die?

I squeeze my eyes tighter, my hands clenching, pushing my thoughts of her aside. 

I won’t think of her – I can’t.

The next day, we start to walk the Path. Through the woods, along wooden bridges and up along steep hills. The Path walkway is decorated with white petals, blood spilled alongside them. The smell of the flowers are overpowering – the sweet but sour smell of the itching at my nose. But then, you can only smell the blood and only the blood. 

Sometimes, other people pass us. Bruised and beaten, guarded by other members, carrying guns. They whine and grunt as they carry large metal crosses on their backs, struggling with the weight of them. Some of them, their eyes are just like my mother’s – milky white, like there is some kind of blindness to them. They don’t speak to us, just keeping their eyes down as they stumble and shuffle past, keeping their heads down. 

“Fuck you bitch!” someone yells.

We all look over to the yelling. A man is yelling at one of the members accompanying us, right up close in her face. The women just stares at the man, not blinking. Behind the man, two other members approach, red crosses painted on their faces. They hoist the man up under his arms, dragging him off as the man kicks and yells, swearing louder. We all turn to look at the women member as the man disappears. She sighs. 

“We’ll stop for today.” Was all she said. 

I’m peeling potatoes for dinner when she arrives. She’s standing with the women member from before, smiling at us all, those white flowers in her hair. 

Faith. 

“Where is he?” she asks the women. 

“In the second hut, Herald.”

“Bring him out.”

The women walks into the hut next to the one where most of us sleep, yelling coming out of it.

Cautiously, we all crowed around Faith, all of us watching the door. The man is thrown out of the hut, landing on his knees in the dirt, his head bowed down. The women yanks him up, marching him towards Faith, each of us managing to get a glance at his face.

It bruised and beaten, bloody. But his eye, the right one. It’s empty, blood gushing out from it. There are some gasps, but we don’t say anything. We all ignored the screaming earlier. 

The man stands before Faith, towering over him. Faith reaches her hands up, holding the man’s face, sighing. 

“You will learn the Father’s word and accept it in your heart. Otherwise, your soul will be tainted. And we don’t want that, do we?”

The man grumbles, swaying back and forth.

“But don’t worry, I shall help you.”

Faith lets go of the man’s face and looks at us, her hands now red against the whiteness of her dress. 

“I shall help you all.”


	4. Chapter 4

We reach the Father’s statue in the next few days, Faith always ahead of us. She danced and twirled around as we followed after her, singing the Father’s words on the metal plaques in the floor.

‘The voice reveals the coming collapse and the true purpose of Joseph’s ministry: to save our souls from destruction and guide them to Eden’s Gate.’

She picked flowers, those white trumpet ones, along the way, spinning them around in her hands. At random times, she would stop me, weave them into my hair, her hands lingering. Then she would smile and skip away, laughing with one of the members around us, leaving my heart burning but also aching.

When we slept – no bunk beds this time, single beds – she would join me when it was pitch black, laying down next to me. I always laid on my side, so she laid an arm over my hip, her face snuggled onto the back of my neck. For the first nights, I could barely breathe. The others gave me looks but Faith was always there, so it became normal.

The statue in itself is white marble and enormous, looking identical to the Father, but nothing more. We just stare up at it, dazed by the sun. Am I supposed to feel anything?

“Isn’t it glorious?” Faith pipes up, her hand on my shoulder.

“It’s …” I mumble. She waits patiently for my answer.

“It’s ... large … “I finally answe.

I can practically feel Faith deflate. I bite my lip, still look at the statue trying to convey a feeling from it as Faith speaks quietly.

“Let’s go and make dinner.”

 

The sun is still rising as Faith wakes me up. I rise out of the warm bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and yawning, the others around me dressed all in white.

“Here,” Faith says, and I look over my shoulder at her, where she’s perched on the bed, her legs tucked under her. “This is for you.”

[It’s a dress. White lace, buttons up along the front and long sleeves, reaching down to my feet and dragging on the floor.](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/0f/ff/81/0fff8126da385b7e6aaed17b2dd2c670.jpg) I take from her, running my fingers over the lace, tracing the details. When I look to her, everyone is gone. She smiles and claps her hands.

“Well, let me help you into it.”

She jumps over to my side, pulling my tank-top off and making me stand up. I instantly shy away, keeping my back from her and covering my chest. I should’ve worn a bra. I let her pull down my blue shorts, glad that I wore underwear to save me from embarrassment, blushing still, my voice dying in my throat as she knees down before me, smiling and her cheeks dusty pink.

Is she … blushing?

The dress is pilled onto the floor as a circle of fabric, Faith holding the side of it as I step into it, still covering my chest. Faith brings it up, her hands brushing over my skin, connecting like electricity. Once it’s hanging off my body, covering most of it up, only left undone by the buttons, do I let my hands down from my chest, letting them hang down by my sides. Faith’s fingers brush over my chest, doing up the buttons slowly. My nipples stiffen as her fingers linger on them, seemly toying with them without touching as I watch helplessly, barely able to breathe, a small moan leaving my lips when she brushes one finger over one. She pulls her hands away, leaving my heart yet again racing, the both of us breathing heavily.

 

The church is full when we arrive. Faith seats me down next to Emma, near the back, before taking her place next to Jacob and John, all of them behind the Father. He preaches but I don’t listen, my ears stuffed with cotton as I pick at the dirt under my nails, my brain thinking back to before. As something coils in the lower part of my stomach, I try to focus more on the teachings, the on-coming collapse managing to stick to my brain.

 

At the end, everyone leaves or crowds around the Father. The ones that left, including me, walk to a farm, my feet digging into the rocks and the dirt on the ground, aching. The area is small, but the fields are full with crops, small huts surrounding the fields, a large-sized one in the middle of them all. The smaller ones are like small houses, each of them having a bedroom of their own.

“But for now, we’ll share. Get to know each other better.” Faith says, smiling as a member next to her claps his hands.

“Alright then, let’s get to work.” We all change out of the white clothes and back into normal clothes. I change into a [purple dress with red roses on it, paired with a brownish/reddish cardigan, striped with faded yellow, white and blue colours along the arms. This time, I wear lace up shoes.](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/7c/0f/9f/7c0f9f102452b8a40123aa40f392844f.jpg?b=t)

We’re introduced to Thomas, his face full of pimples. He’s kind, laughing and smiling with us, even when he gets a ‘fuck you’ or ‘fuck off’. I have to look away the times when he nears me – he’s too kind.

 

I’m picking strawberries the next day, a water cup next to me from a wheelbarrow filled with them, when someone – a member – comes running. He runs up to Faith as I pause in my work, the basket next to me half full with the red fruits, sipping from my cup as he whispers to Faith, watching with mild interest. At first, she frowns but then smiles, almost as bright as the sun.

What’s going on?

She comes running over, falling to her knees before me, making the water from my sip run out of my mouth in surprise, running down my chin part way down my throat. She slides a finger up to the water droplet on my throat, catching it. Gently, she slides it back up my throat, up my chin and to my bottom lip, which she slightly peels back. I watch her as she bits her lip, tracing the bottom of my lip as I barely breathe, barely able to process that people are watching us, unable to focus on anything but her and her touch.

“My brother, John wants you. You’re going to be cleansed.” She whispers, her voice heavy.

“And you’ll be part of our family.”


	5. Chapter 5

I don’t remember much about the confession. Vaguely, I remember being hauled into a van in the dead of night, the bottom of it covered in those white flowers and empty gun shells. The man, the one had lost his eyes, sat on the opposite side of me, a woman crying next to him. We didn’t speak to each other as the van drove away, leaving the huts and the fields of crops, those hymns they played when we worked the only noise.

I was sitting in an orange room – was it the paint or the light? – antlers descending from the ceiling. My hands were sitting on my lap as I sat in the silver metal chair, waiting. For what? There was blood – on the walls, on the floors. On the workbench, tools were glittering away under the light, sharp and blunt. There was the sound of music, whistling, a tune from the radio.

I rambled on about my life, growing up Portland, Oregon, my mother and father always working. Then moving to Montana, being the stranger one, the one that never fitted in. Being pulled out of school, my father dying on my birthday. Then the abuse, the words, beating, never being able to do anything about it.

“I see now. I know your sin.”

John was grinning, holding a knife. Was it a knife, the details are murky. I was laying on my front, on a metal bench, something sticky spreading on to my clothes.

“When it comes to absolution, sometimes one must experience pain in order to really be free from sin.”

The knife or whatever it was, sliced into my skin.

“You’re unwilling to change. Complacent and discouraged by those meaningless events in your life. Your sin is Sloth.

When I woke up, I was back in the hut, on the bed, my shoulder aching, covered in bangers as I looked in the small tin mirror in the small bathroom. ‘Sloth’ was carved into my shoulder when I peeled back the bangers, bright red and bleeding, spots of bleed welling up. It took a day and night for the bleeding to stop, another day for the pain to dull away. The one-eyed man was with me. We helped in the kitchen, making breakfast, lunch and dinner for the rest of the group. We were washing the dishes when he told me his name. Simon. I told him mine, asking after a beat of silence what happened to the other women. He didn’t answer.

We did know but didn’t ask.

 

“I’m surprised your sin is Sloth.” Faith said once she saw the word, helping to rub ice over the words.

“Why?” I asked, winching.

“I would have thought your sin would have been Envy. But John is usually right about most things.”

“Usually right? What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing! Don’t worry, you should be more worried about your baptism!”

 

The next day, Faith had jumped into the hut, opening the large dresser we all shared, searching through it. She pulled out [another white dress, much shorter than the other dress from before. It was shorted sleeved, with a lit mint ribbon around the middle, tied into a bow at the back.](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/8f/db/ee/8fdbee17d5b1d8699b464134d9e57156.jpg?b=t)

I took it from her, standing off the bed. It was beautiful but simple. Plain but pretty. Faith unbuttoned my shirt, peeling it back of my shoulders as I covered my chest (Why did I never wear a bra when she did this?), letting the shirt drop to the floor. Faith then started unbuttoning my shorts, pulling them down and allowing me to step of them. It was a miracle I was wearing underwear.

She’s started doing this, helping me dress and undress. She said it was because of my sin, but her touch lingers, soft finger touches on my stomach, inching downwards.

Faith pulled the dress up and over me. It fit perfectly, hanging off all the right places on my body, which was a feat itself. I reached for my bra on the floor, only to have Faith to kick it away, under the bed.

“You should be completely pure. Like Eve before her fall.” Faith whispered, close to my face.

“Before her fall? Should I be worried, then? Will I fall like her?” I asked, trying not to raise my eyebrows. Faith just smiled, a hand slithering up to my chest, running her fingers over my nipples, making them stiff.

“You don’t have to worry about that if you stay pure. For me.”

My breath catches in my throat and I grinded my teeth together, trying to suppress a moan. Slowly, Faith slides her other hand down my hip, down to the base of the dress, lifting it up an inch, higher and higher with each second that passed.

Somebody knocked on the door. Faith huffed but opened it, as I let myself breathe, allowing myself to gain my composure.

“Here Herald. What you asked for.” a member said, passing Faith something.

Faith took the stuff, closing the door with her hip, and skipping over to me, her face relaxing.

“These are for you.”

She handed me a small bottle, the same colour as the ribbon. Nail polish.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked, holding up the bottle. “I thought we shouldn’t care about cosmetics.”

“It’s not much. And it’s a special occasion.” Faith said. “If anyone says anything, tell them I said it was okay.”

She sat me down on the bed. “Paint your nails and come out when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting outside with the rest.”

Faith left, closing the door behind her softly. I opened the nail polish, taking my time to paint my nails. For luck, I painted my toenails, letting them dry as I laid on my back, staring up at the white ceiling.

What was with all the white? Didn’t they know about any other colours?

I  shake my head, slipping on a pair of brown ankle boots and open the door, picking up a (white, because of course) white cardigan. I should be more worried about other things, like this baptism.

“You ready?” Thomas asked, standing alongside Faith. I nod, Faith, reaching out to hold my hand as we all begin to walk.

 

They’re waiting for us, all lined up along the path. We walk past them, some of them holding guns across their chests, staring down at us, unblinking. They’re not the scariest ones – the ones who smile, clapping and hugging each other. They don’t look alive in their eyes. Too bright-eyed, too happy.

The Father stands in the water, John beside him. Jacob stands guard over them on the shoreline, another gun in his hand. Faith lets go of my hand, standing next to Jacob, looking on.

“The time has come, my children, to be cleansed.” the Father says, his voice quiet over the sound of the running river water, yet as powerful as the current.

“I am your Father and you are my children. When the time comes, we shall all walk through Eden’s Gate.”

Despite the yellow aviators shielding his eyes, you can still see that sharp, intense gaze he sets upon us, almost looking for any weakness. He holds his arms out, like in the photo’s before, dramatically.

“Now let us begin. Who shall go first?”

The women who was crying, nights ago, steps forward first, wading through the water before reaching the Father and John.

John opens one of the white books and starts to read from it, the Father holding onto the women’s shoulders. My ears are stuffed with cotton as I look on, as the Father ducks the women down under the water, small bubbles rising to the top of the surface.

Something drops onto my head. I reach up, feeling soft petals.

“It’s a flower crown.” Faith whispers, reaching up. “Something a little more extra to make this even more special.”

She rearranges it, another person stepping forward as the crying women stumbles out of the water. “Some are wildflowers but most of them are bliss flowers, from my own special supply. There!”

She steps back, her hands clasped in front of her. “You’re already now.”

She holds my hand after I remove my shoes, leading me to the base of the shoreline, where land meets the river. My body feels as if it's floating, not connected to my brain as I step into the water, Faith standing back with Jacob. A body floats in the distant, carried away by the current.

Lucy.

She told me her name when she helped me when making jam, telling me all about her family. She had a baby named Zoey.

Fear grips at me but I bury it deep down, my eyes cast downwards,

Why? Why would they kill Lucy? She was nice. She was good. 

 

It’s quick, my thoughts snatched out of my head. The Father holds me, dunking me under, the cold water washing over me. I think I might forget to breathe, worried I’ll drown like Lucy, my body set off down the river after I’ve died.

I thought about dying like this before, back at home, in the bathtub. I would fill up with warm water and sit in it, until the water became cold, just thinking. What was I thinking?

At last, I’m pulled back up to the surface, air rushing around me. I take gasps if air as my mouth opens, my eyes blinking away the water droplets. Flower petals drift away in the current behind me, the flower crown now broken.

“In the name of the Father, you have been cleansed.”

The water has soaked through the dress, my body showing through the fabric, clinging to my skin. The cold air nips at my breasts and I don’t have to look down to know that my nipples are showing through the fabric.

Faith reaches me and pulls me to the sore, a blanket wrapped around my shoulder. The women who went first stands shivering, her eyes narrowed at me.

“Come on,” Faith says. “Let’s go and get ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask.

“The party.”


	6. Chapter 6

I take another bite of lemon cake coated in buttercream frosting, my teeth stinging from the sweetness. I sit in a wooden chair in my [new dress](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3c/18/66/3c1866ed7c8631c1c29d6e3fde38be3d.jpg?b=t), watching as members danced with each other, Thomas playing a fiddle in the corner. Other members guard the area, their backs and guns to us.

I sigh, sinking further down into the chair. Despite the dancing, the food, the festivals, everything was dulled. It was like looking through a grey lens – I knew things were supposed to be in colour, but they weren’t, rather different shades for grey,

Simon sat next to me, arms braced on his knees, the bandaged around his eye having been replaced.

“What’s up kid?” he asks.

“I can’t help but think about …” I pause. “About Lucy …”

I whisper her name, watching as a member walks past us, the both of us silent.

“Lucy wasn’t a true believer,” Simon drones out, like reading off a script. “She didn’t have faith.”

His hand moves under the table, hidden as he passes me a small note, folded in half, quickly as his knees move up and down in weird jerky movements. I look down at my lap, unfolding the paper, still keeping it hidden as I read, my eyes darting between the words.

‘They murdered her. Held her down while she struggled in the water – they knew she had a baby. Said she was the embodiment of sin, they said. If we don’t act, they’re going to do it to all of us. If you need help, just ask.’

I look up to Simon, my mind racing, but he’s already moving away, looking no different than before. Like he didn’t share the note with me. I shove it into my pocket, holding it even smaller. I have to get rid of it before anyone else finds out. I sweep my gaze over the dancers, slipping the grape juice, pursing my lips at the taste of it.

Sweet but too soar. Someone’s spiked it. Guiltily little pleasures, it’s a celebration, someone would argue. They’ll look away. Reluctantly, I put down the cup, running my fingers over the fabric of the table cloth.

I need to know more. Maybe this group isn’t what I thought it was. I need to learn more, find out the truth before I make my move.

“What are you doing all alone here?” Faith’s voice rings out and I turn my head to face her.

She’s holding a small bag, tissue paper spilling out from it. She walks closer to me, handing me the bag, my fingers brushing against mine. She sits down next to me where Simon sat, smiling as she nibs at a slice of cake.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Look!” Faith answers.

I peer inside, pulling out the tissue paper. I pull out a small silver chain necklace, a simple silver cross hanging off it.

“This is for me?” I ask, putting the box on the table, looking at Faith.

“Of course, silly! Who else would it be for?” she jumps off the chair. “Here, let me help you get it on.”

I undo the chain as Faith stands behind me, giving her the chain. She lifts my hair out of the way, the cold of the chain settling against my warm skin.

Faith’s fingers stroke my skin, humming. “I’ll take it you like it?” she whispers.

I hum, relaxing almost instantly into her touch. She tips my chin, making me face her.

“You’ll pay me back, won’t you?”

“How?” I whisper, the music from the fiddle and the talking from the others drowned out, Faith’s hair curtaining around my face.

She leans down, her lips pressing against mine. I close my eyes, feeling the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her of her perfume inflecting my nose.

She moves away, my lips following after her as she giggles.

“You’re have more soon.”


End file.
